


Cobwebs

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Smut, Oneshot, Recovery, Scars, Soft Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Tree Bros, boys being ~soft~ again, evan has a leg fetish pass it on, mike faist this is your fault, more animal metaphors because idk how to write without em, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 06:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20862113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: Evan thinks about that one pair of super-skinny jeans that fit just right, and how Connor’s legs look so good in them it should be illegal.And he wonders what Connor's legs look like out of them.They've not ever really gotten to that point. Not yet.(OR: The jeans come off. A conversation happens.)





	Cobwebs

**Author's Note:**

> So. 
> 
> I started writing this. Decided I hated it. Came back to it and decided "hey, this ain't THAT bad!" Kept writing. Decided I hated it AGAIN...
> 
> It's been a while in the making considering it's just a 3k-ish oneshot. But omg. Probably never would have finished it without the help and support of cecropia (thank you fabulous human whom i love and adore xo)
> 
> TW: BIG self-harm theme in this one Re Connor. Nothing actually happens in the story, so no blood warnings or anything like that. But talk of scars. If you think that might be a potential trigger for you, then maybe sit this one out. 
> 
> ALSO: I'm SO VERY AGAINST romanticizing self-harm. It's such a damaging and dangerous way of thinking, and I did my absolute best to avoid those ideas/themes in this fic (believe me i rewrote and second-guessed SO much dialogue). Instead I've tried to romanticize and celebrate ~recovery~ (and even taking baby steps towards it) because everyone deserves that <3 I really hope that comes across!
> 
> Love you guys and thank you for reading xoxo
> 
> https://theyellowestmustard.tumblr.com/

* * *

Rumination.

That's what Doctor Sherman calls it.

It's commonly associated with anxiety disorders, he says, but also a symptom of obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, depression. _ It’s not fun _, Doctor Sherman tells him, with a condescending smile that makes Evan grit his teeth in irritation. 

Yeah, no shit.

It’s that thing that happens where a thought will pop into Evan’s head, usually something extremely concerning with dire consequences for Evan if it happens to come to fruition. And usually something with absolutely no basis in reality. And his brain kind of locks onto it, doubles down, and Evan finds the same thought spiraling around and around, never reaching a conclusion and making his heart beat faster with every rotation, until he's dizzy and sick and breaking out in a cold sweat, lying frozen on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling while he whirls around internally at top speed.

Rumination.

Having a name for it doesn't make it go away.

So, thanks for that, Doctor Sherman.

It’s usually something stupid he's said, or something awkward he's done, that starts the escalating, repetitive pattern of ‘ands’. How that's the reason he's got no friends, and he's always alone, and he's probably always going to be alone, because he's stupid and awkward and everyone's laughing at him, and he deserves to be laughed at, _ and-and-and… _

  


And before he knows it, he's out of control. Lost in a sea of ‘_ and’. _

  


Except.

  


Things are different now.

They've been different for a while.

Evan's spent a lot of time over the last couple of months caught up in obsessive spirals of thought. 

Lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, like usual.

Heart pounding. Head spinning.

But what's new is that Evan's recent trains of thought haven't made him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic. 

Mostly they've just. Made him want to take a cold shower, honestly.

He wonders if it even _ counts _as rumination if it makes him smile so much.

He’d rather die than ask Doctor Sherman.

  


Evan thinks a lot, too much, about Connor Murphy's eyes. And his hair and his jawline and his laugh and that perfect little dimple that appears in his cheek when he smiles _ just so _.

Not when Connor's _ there _of course. It's not like when Connor's there he just sits and stares at him and thinks about him.

  


He's usually kind of got his hands full when Connor's around.

  


It's not until afterwards. After Connor holds Evan at his front door, pressing kisses to his hair and stroking his back and taking forever to leave because neither of them really _ want _him to leave. And after Connor sends him a text, at Evan's insistence, that he's gotten home safe. Usually it's something simple and sweet, but sometimes he'll send something stupid that makes Evan laugh. So Evan never really knows what he's in for.

  


** _Connor: _ ** _ im home, miss u already x _

** _Connor: _ ** _ hey so quick question when are we doing that again omg (also im home in one piece) _

** _Connor: _ ** _ oof bad news, didn't make it home, I came in my pants thinking about u while driving and crashed the car and now im dead, hope u like ghost dick _

** _Connor: _ ** _ what are ur thoughts on waluigi (im home btw x) _

  


And Evan checks his phone, lying on top of the covers, and he'll blush or he'll laugh or sometimes he'll just smile gently.  


Then he'll stare at the ceiling, still and silent, with a dumb, goofy grin on his face, while his brain starts looping happy obsessive thoughts about Connor Lawrence Murphy.

And there's...a lot to obsess about, frankly. A lot to ruminate over.

  


Connor has really soft skin. Like. Unfairly soft. Particularly in that little dip in the small of his back. Evan’s hands gravitate there automatically whenever their lips meet, and when he slips his hands under Connor's shirt to touch him there he moans prettily into Evan's mouth.

And Evan really, _ really _likes that.

Connor has nice hands. Smooth and delicate. His nails are always neatly trimmed, despite the mess of chipped dark polish, and his fingers are long and slender like the rest of him. It kind of makes Evan’s stomach flip if he looks at them too much.

Evan's absolute favorite thing in the world, however, is Connor Murphy's legs.

Connor complains about them a lot. It's impossible, being six foot and also so goddamn skinny, he says. Apparently it's hard to find jeans that fit. He has to go a size up if he wants them to be long enough for him, and then they bunch up around his knees and ankles, which looks dumb. 

As if Connor's ever looked dumb a day in his life.

Connor thinks he looks like a spider. With a tiny body and disproportionately long, spindly legs.

Evan thinks he's beautiful.

He's not sure if it's rumination, exactly. But Evan does know that he spends a lot of his time grinning at his ceiling like a lunatic, thinking about long, lean legs, mind looping back and replaying the same thoughts over and over. He thinks about that pair of distressed jeans, and the noise Connor had made when Evan had slipped his fingers into one of the rips and caressed Connor's bare knee. And the time Connor had sat on Evan's lap and wrapped those long legs around him, grinding his hips against Evan's, whimpering against his mouth.

He thinks about that one pair of super-skinny jeans that _ do _fit right, and how Connor’s legs look so good in them it should be fucking illegal.

And he wonders what Connor's legs look like _ out _ of them.

  


They've not ever really gotten to that point. Not yet. 

  


They’ve done practically everything that can be done with pants still on. But so far, Evan’s only ever seen Connor’s legs in jeans. Or sweatpants, that one time he’d stayed home from school with a migraine and Evan had come to visit him in the afternoon. He’d brought him a glass of water so he could take some aspirin, and curled up with him in his pitch-dark bedroom, running his fingers through his hair and whispering soothingly, senselessly, until Connor was able to fall asleep.

And he’d hated his brain for even _ going _ there when Connor was clearly in pain, but he’d also found himself secretly marveling over the fact that Connor’s legs _ still _ looked fucking _ incredible, _even in bulky polyester. 

  


Connor's legs look good in every obsessive thought Evan has.

Connor's legs look good _ now _. 

  


He's sprawled out on Evan's bed, lying on his side with his hands in Evan's hair as he kisses him, slow and deep. He's long ago shucked off his shirt, and the sight of Connor Murphy's bare chest, his shoulders and arms and collarbone, kind of makes Evan feel weak at the knees. 

There's some Radiohead song playing on Evan's laptop, one of Connor's favorites, quiet and lilting, and it's just barely dusk, and Heidi's not due home for hours yet.

Evan feels like he's walking through waist-deep water; clumsy and heavy and sinking into wet sand.

And when Connor slides his fingers down Evan's neck, and tilts his head to brush soft kisses along Evan's jaw, Evan just feels...very seventeen, honestly.

Connor hooks a leg over Evan's hip, and Evan's hand flies to it instantly, gripping Connor's knee and dragging him closer until they're pressed flush against each other, and Connor pulls away from Evan's jaw just enough to work his mouth around Evan's name.

"You're fucking... you're so fucking _ pretty _, Jesus," Evan mumbles, words all slurred together, and then his lips are on Connor's once more, and Connor laughs a little into the kiss, then moans as Evan kisses him harder.

And then the leg over his hip shifts just a fraction, and Evan's eyes are immediately drawn to it, and then his hands are too, and he slides his palms all the fuck over Connor's thigh. And then Connor’s gasping and his hips are rolling restlessly, and then practically all of Evan's entire being is just. Locked onto Connor's long long long legs. 

  


And those jeans need to come off, like. Immediately. 

  


Evan’s hands skirt down Connor’s chest, his stomach, and hover around the fly of Connor’s jeans. He knows he ought to get permission, but the words are stuck in his throat, and Connor’s still kissing him and he really _ really _doesn’t want to talk because that would require pulling away and Connor’s tongue is pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to Evan. But he’s not about to just. Strip Connor’s pants off without asking, either.

  


So instead he sort of just pops the button, then feebly pulls at the zip; not really undoing it, just tugging a little, and he hopes Connor gets the hint.

  


Connor breaks the kiss, and pulls back to look Evan in the eye, which is somewhat expected, and Evan waits for a teasing comment and a flirty smile, or maybe even a lewd joke at Evan’s expense.

  


None of the above happens, though.

  


Instead Connor goes completely still against Evan, rigid and stiff, and his eyes flit down to Evan’s hands on his jeans, then back to Evan’s face.

  


Then over Evan’s shoulder, fixing squarely on his bare bedroom wall.

  


He takes a deep, shaky breath and holds it.

  


He looks..._ frightened. _

  


And fuck, _fuck_, Evan’s fucked this up, he’s totally fucked this up, he’s moved too fast and pushed Connor past his comfort zone and he so obviously _doesn’t_ _want_ this, and Evan _never_ thought _he’d _be the type of person to pressure anyone into sex stuff, but he’d just _assumed_ that he and Connor were more or less on the same page and they’re _clearly _not and now Connor’s never going to trust him _ever again._

Evan yanks his hands back like he’s been burnt, and tries to shuffle backwards, to give Connor his space, but it doesn’t quite work because Connor’s leg is still draped over Evan’s hip.

“_ Sorry,” _ he chokes out, and his heart is hammering away in his chest like it’s trying to escape. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--I should’ve asked you, I--I’m sorry, I just _ \--” _

“Evan,” says Connor carefully, levelly. He’s still staring at the wall past Evan’s head. “Evan, it’s OK.”

“It’s _ not, _I shouldn’t have just--”

“Stop. Just...stop.”

Connor’s eyes slowly slide back over to meet Evan’s, and he exhales heavily. He still looks a little freaked out; he licks his lips several times, then shoves a hand into his hair and grabs a fistful of it to anchor himself.

“It’s not...it’s not...because of _ that _, I just…”

Connor gives Evan a long, searching look, like he’s hoping Evan can just read his mind and he doesn’t have to keep talking. 

Evan wishes he _ could _ , because Connor just looks...so _ uncomfortable _ . He wants to _ fix it _, but…

  


Connor huffs out a resigned sort of sigh, and he says “OK,” softly under his breath, even though nothing about this feels OK, not one little bit, and Evan’s heart is still pounding and he’s physically having to swallow back more apologies and then Connor’s unhooking his leg from Evan’s hip and shuffling away.

  


And then he unzips his jeans.

  


“No, wait--” Evan says in a rush, and he’s breathless but not in a good way anymore. 

  


Because Connor’s just doing this because Evan wants him to. 

_ Wanted _ him to. 

Evan doesn’t want this anymore.

Not when Connor still looks _ scared. _

  


“Don’t,” Evan says, and his heart feels like it’s slammed it’s way up into his throat. “Please don’t. Not if you don’t want--”

“Just--” says Connor, then he sighs again, and when he looks up there’s this grim look in his eyes that Evan doesn’t understand and he absolutely fucking hates it. 

“Just...I just wanna rip this bandaid off, OK? Just…”

  


And before Evan can protest he’s working his jeans off.

  


He gets them down to his ankles, then kicks them off the rest of the way, and he leans back against the headboard with his legs stretched out straight in front of him, arms hanging limply at his sides. His fingers twitch against the comforter, like he’s fighting the urge to fling it over himself and disappear.

  


And Evan just...stares.

Evan had already known about Connor's wrists. It had never really been that big of a secret; the raised white lines trailing all the way up to the crooks of his elbows.

  


The horizontal ones hurt to look at.

  


The vertical ones are worse.

  


But Evan hadn’t known about this. 

  


He’d had no idea.

  


"They're awful, I know," Connor says quietly. "I probably should have warned you earlier, I guess. Sorry."

Evan hates himself for staring. 

  


But he can’t tear his eyes away from Connor’s thighs; the twisted cobwebs of vicious, angry lines etched into Connor’s skin.

  


There’s just...so _ many. _

Some of them look deep. 

Really deep.

  


“How long has it been?” Evan asks in a whisper, the words tumbling out before he has a chance to overthink them.

  


Connor won’t look at him.

  


“Five months,” he says steadily. “Well...almost six, actually. Six next Tuesday.”

  


And Evan suddenly feels like he might fucking burst into tears.

  


Because.

Fuck.

So many reasons.

  


Because firstly that’s...so _ long _. Way longer than Evan was expecting. The fact that Connor has actively fought against the urge to hurt himself, and has been staying safe for close to half a year is nothing short of incredible.

He’s _ incredible. _

  


Even more so is the fact that, if it’s really been six whole months, Connor stopped hurting himself a fair amount of time _ before _Evan was in the picture.

  


Which means Connor hasn’t stopped for Evan. He’s stopped for _ himself. _

  


Which is all Evan could ever, _ever_ want for him. 

  


And just…

He knows the date.

He knows the exact day that five months ticks over into six.

He’s _ counting. _

  


Evan’s arms ache with the urge to grab onto him and not let go, to just squeeze the fuck out of him and kiss him until he can’t breathe, because Connor Lawrence Murphy is absolutely amazing and wonderful and Evan is completely and totally overwhelmed by him.

But Connor’s still lying there with all his joints locked up, pale skinny wrists facing up and legs lying flat, staring past Evan with an unreadable expression on his face.

When Evan looks at him closely, really closely, he notices he’s trembling.

And Evan could take the time to overthink. To panic about saying the wrong thing.

But the urge to comfort Connor, to tell him how amazing he is, just bypasses all the anxious bullshit in Evan’s brain, and he finds himself blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“That’s...incredible. That’s a really long time.”

  


Connor’s eyes dart to him.

There's something lost and floundering in his gaze, and he glances down at his thighs and then back up again, blinking at Evan slowly. He almost seems like he’s waiting for something; like there’s something else he expects Evan to say, and when Evan just...sits and looks at him, his eyes widen a little and this awed expression settles over his face. 

He opens his mouth several times, but no words come out, and he touches his scars gingerly without looking down, fingertips climbing them like a ladder.

  


“I, um...yeah?” Connor says waveringly, and he sounds so uncertain that the need to reassure him swells bigger and bigger in Evan’s chest, until he can’t help but scoot closer and grab one of Connor’s hands.

  


He links their fingers together, brushes his thumb over Connor’s knuckles. 

  


“Yeah,” Evan breathes. “Yeah, that’s just...amazing. You’re amazing. Congratulations, Connor. That must have been...really really hard.”

  


Connor stares at Evan for a long moment, like he’s still trying to process Evan’s response. His eyes sweep over Evan’s face, over his cheeks and mouth and jaw and chin, and back up to his eyes several times; studying him, analyzing him. 

He looks almost...confused, and suspicion flashes across his face in short, cold bursts.

Evan almost feels like he might cry again.

Because _ fuck _ , what was he _ expecting _ Evan to say?

What have other people _ done _to this boy that the word ‘congratulations’ sends him reeling like this?

Whatever Connor’s looking for on Evan’s face, he can’t seem to find it. His shoulders relax, and his distrustful expression melts into something like dazed astonishment. He breathes shallow and shaky as he slides back down onto Evan’s bed, and he pulls gently at Evan’s hand, still linked with his, until he follows suit. And then they’re lying there, facing each other once more, and Connor wriggles closer, impossibly close, wrapping both arms around Evan and burying his face in the crook of Evan’s neck.

He lets out a shuddering little sigh into Evan’s skin, and Evan’s arms tighten reflexively around him.

“It...has been,” Connor mumbles into Evan’s bare shoulder. “It’s been really really fucking hard. Worth it, though. I’m...I’m kind of proud of myself, I guess?” he says, tentatively, and Evan reaches up and tucks his fingers under Connor’s chin, tilting his head so he can look him in the eye.

“You should be,” Evan says firmly. “_ I’m _ proud of you.”

Connor gives Evan another long look, and then something in his expression shifts, breaks, and he’s not quite crying but he’s pretty damn close, and Evan quickly moves his fingers away from Connor’s jaw and allows him to hide his face against Evan’s neck again, breathing deep in an attempt to steady himself.

Evan strokes his back.

“You’re OK,” he whispers. “You’re OK.” 

Because he is.

Connor is OK.

Connor is here and breathing and holding Evan tight, and Evan is just...so _ so _thankful.

Connor breathes in. Breathes out.

“I’m OK,” he repeats softly into Evan’s collarbone. “I’m OK.”

They stay cocooned against each other in silence for a while; Evan running his fingers up and down Connor’s spine as Connor murmurs, _ I’m OK _ again and again, almost in wonderment, like he’s only just now realizing it’s _ true. _

And then, in typical Connor fashion, he whispers one more, “I’m OK.”

Then.

“...That’s fucking _ wild.” _

And Evan laughs, warm and breathy into Connor’s hair, and kisses the crown of his head, and he feels Connor’s shoulders shake a little as he laughs, too.

“You’re ridiculous,” Evan tells him, and Connor nods almost gleefully in response, and the top of his head whacks Evan in the chin and then they both laugh some more.

“We should celebrate,” Evan mumbles. “On Tuesday.” 

Connor lets out a soft, incredulous chuckle.

“What, like balloons? Cake? A party clown?”

“Whatever you want,” Evan says, grinning widely, and Connor snickers and goes, “I’ll hold you to it,” and then he’s readjusting, shifting onto his back and tugging Evan with him, so Evan’s head is resting against Connor’s shoulder, one arm flung over his waist.

And lying like this, Evan’s attention is immediately redirected to Connor’s long-ass legs.

Connor’s _ bare _legs.

And like. Evan shouldn’t say anything. He _ shouldn’t. _

Not after what Connor’s just shared with him. Not after Connor’s allowed himself to be open and raw and vulnerable about such a personal struggle.

But Evan’s never exactly been great at impulse control.

“You have really nice legs,” he blurts out, abrupt and uncomfortably loud.

He immediately regrets it.

Mostly because, like.

Really _ nice _?

‘Nice’ doesn’t even _ begin _ to cover it.

They look even longer now, without the jeans, just pale, soft-looking skin stretching on and on, knobbly knees and ankles jutting out, needle-sharp. He’s a fucking work of art.

Connor is quiet for a moment.

He takes a breath, like he’s about to say something, then lets it out and tries again.

“Look...I know you’re just trying to be...supportive, or whatever, but...please don’t give me that whole ‘your scars are beautiful’ bullshit, that’s not...it doesn’t help to hear that, y’know? It’s, um. Not to be like..._ that person, _ but it’s...kind of triggering for me, if you, like--”

“N-no, that’s not--” Evan stammers, because _ fuck _ , that wasn’t what he’d meant at _ all. _

“I just--”

“_ No. _ No, I--I didn’t mean...I just meant, like. Your whole... _ legs. _I’ve, uh. Kind of been obsessed with them for forever, and um. Just. Wow.”

Connor stares at him. 

“You...you, uh--"

“Yeah,” Evan says quickly, and he can feel his face beginning to heat up. “I just have, um. A really embarrassing thing for your, uh. Legs. I always have.”

Connor regards him in silence for a moment, and Evan’s brain is off, going _ bad timing, bad choice of words, bad execution, bad everything badbadbad. _

But then Connor laughs at him, and sort of scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

He throws an arm casually over his face, over his eyes, but Evan sees the gesture for exactly what it is. 

Connor’s trying to hide.

Connor’s _ shy. _

Beneath the skinny wrist, his ears and his neck and his jaw are all turning this beautiful, rosy pink.

“I...I look like a fuckin’ spider,” he mumbles into the crook of his elbow, for like the millionth time in the few months Evan’s known him.

Evan snuggles closer.

“The prettiest kind of spider, then,” he appeases.

“What kind of spider am I?” Connor asks, suddenly sounding a little sleepy. Which Evan knows is normal for Connor after something involving Lots Of Feelings happens. The mental and emotional strain just...knocks him out.

Evan smiles at him, all warm affection, even though Connor can’t see him because he still has his arm over his eyes.

“A daddy long legs,” Evan says with a grin, and Connor snickers and says, “Daddy,” into his own arm, and Evan snorts and prods him in the ribs.

“You’re...you’re stupid,” Evan tells him fondly, and Connor breathes out a quiet laugh in return.

He’s quiet for a while, and his breathing evens out, becomes gentle and shallow. And Evan’s pretty sure he’s fallen asleep.

So when Connor pipes up again, he almost jumps out of his skin, even though his voice is whisper-soft.

“Most people are freaked out by spiders, you know,” says Connor. “Most people want them gone.”

“I don’t,” Evan replies simply, softly. “I really really don’t.”

Connor sleeps. 

Evan is quick to follow. 

And, when they wake together, there’s a long, thin, bare leg wedged between both of Evan’s.

And, regardless of whatever happens next, Evan knows he’ll be ruminating on that mental image for a long, long time. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
